


i'm the one with the gun in my hands

by charleybradburies



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguing, Commitment, Community: 1_million_words, Developing Relationship, F/M, Foreplay, Internal Conflict, Natasha-centric, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Natasha Romanov, Partners to Lovers, Partnership, Relationship Problems, Tension, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3365966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not about commitment. </p><p>This is about their mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm the one with the gun in my hands

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Boys, Grab Your Guns" by My American Heart.

“One night!”

“Clint,” she sighs angrily, wrapping the towel around her head. They should have stayed somewhere with at least somewhat soundproof rooms. But _no._ Nothing like that. They were sharing a room - they were sharing a _bed_ \- and now, she had to decide whether she’d rather chance climbing out the bathroom window in nothing but two towels or breaking the door down to get him to _let her the fuck out._

“It’s sappy, and cliche, and terrible, and it’s not even a real holiday!”

“It’s totally a real holiday! Why else would it be on the calendar?”

“Any calendar company can arbitrarily make any given day a holiday, Clint. If people started calling spiders butterflies, it wouldn’t make them butterflies.”

“You’re not thinking of flying away, are you?”

“At this precise moment, yes, yes I am.”

“Because I want to do something for Valentine’s Day.”

“Yes.”

“Are you really that afraid of commitment?”

She scoffs, barely pressing the sound out of her throat as it closes up on her a bit, and starts taking the towel off her hair, more as a distraction than anything else.

“This is not about commitment. This is about our mission.”

She hears him sigh. Clint never sighs. It doesn’t sound like him, and that scares her a little more than what they’re actually there to do.

“The mission can spare a single evening.”

“Clint…”

“But I don’t know how many more _we_ can, Tasha.”

His voice is low, and they both fall to silence after. The soft patter of his steps against the floor seems louder than it probably should as he walks back to the living room of their suite. She presses her hands into the rim of the sink, looking herself in the eye as though she weren’t quite sure who she was. 

Had she _ever_ been sure?

She pushes herself up onto her tiptoes for a moment, curling her feet under and closing her eyes, and stretches her arms above her head. 

There were moments, sometimes…

She looks good with black hair. It’s shorter than she’d usually like, but it has a very classy sort of look to it, and she likes that. She sighs, and bites her lip, and musters the strength to march herself to the living room.

“What did you have in mind?” she asks quietly.

“Asking for a friend?” Clint responds, his voice harsh in retort. He doesn’t even look up from the file he’s going through at the table.

“Not sure. Are you considered a friend?”

***

She wipes her hand on her thigh, transferring the tomato sauce to the back of her hand as she fumbles to pull the massive piece into her other hand. He grabs her hand and licks the sauce off, and she scoffs.

“Excuse you,” she teases. “That fell onto _my_ thigh. You don’t get to be the one to lick it.”

His teeth are already yanking off some of his next slice, but after he starts to chew he opens his mouth to talk again anyway, and she doesn’t stop him. After all, they were sitting on a couch in their pajamas, eating pizza that was one third tomato sauce and another pepperoni, and half-watching some ridiculous horror movie whose name she couldn’t even recall. Proper table manners weren’t really the order of the night.

“Could lick it off your thigh, too, if you want,” Clint suggests teasingly, and as she’s licking a little bit more sauce off one of her thumbs she meets his gaze and pulls the thumb out as slowly as she can.

“Like to see you try,” she challenges, ripping off another bite. He leans forward and puts his piece back on top of the box and she jumps to do the same before leaping over the couch and speeding towards the kitchen. He pops up off the couch, chasing after her. She’s faster, smaller, and more stealthy, but she’s trying to run in slippers in a one-bedroom apartment and she’s had a beer and a half and they’re just playing around, really, so when he manages to latch a hand around her wrist she pushes away her automatic compulsion to fight and lets him pull her closer.

Her back crashes against the wall, and within seconds he’s pressed up against her, his hands clasped around her hips and his lips greedily locked onto hers. She throws her arms up over his shoulders, gripping him tighter; as though he’d been waiting those few seconds to gauge her enthusiasm, one of his hands travels to curl around the nape of her neck, leaving shivers in its gentle wake as it climbs her side.

And here they went again.

Maybe for lack of a better way to think of it, Tasha hated sex with Clint. She hated it, because she absolutely loved it. She _never_ loved sex - it was a bartering tool, that she used to get her way, and here he was, wholly able to use it against her. Not that he thought of it that way, not at all, but somehow, that made it even worse. He wasn’t even looking to control the situation; no, he legitimately liked making her feel good, and god, did he _ever._ But to let him meant letting go of her control, and there wasn’t any way to prevent getting hurt when she let go.

A small whimper escapes her lips as he tears his away from them, and she can feel the slightest smirk against her skin when he presses his mouth to her neck, the gentlest scrape of teeth underneath the wetter, sweeter caress; her lips purse, another moan falling out as her nails rasp against his back. The hand of his still at her hip loosens and slides to the small of her back, pulling her flush against his chest, but when she tilts her head towards his, cuing him to kiss her again, he further loosens his grip. Her shirt is slithering up her spine, and it’s pulled up even more by her reflexive gasp when one of Clint’s hands finds its unceremonious way to the gap between her legs. Even knowingly rubbing up against slightly damp boxers, his touch is wickedly tender, and it takes her deliberately hooking one of her legs around his for him to slip his hand far enough under her to pull her up into his arms and carry her back to the couch.

He lays her down, just careful enough not to knock over their pizza or beer, and she reaches up to yank off his shirt. He leans down to let her pull it over his head, and his fingers are slipping underneath the hem of hers even before she’s thrust it to the floor beside them.

True to word and in good humor, the first kisses he lays on her now are on her thighs. The string of them travels up her legs and stomach, pausing for an enthusiastic appreciation of her breasts before he bends himself flat over her, his knee pressing into the crease in the back of the couch, and tugs off her shorts and the panties beneath them, tossing them to the floor with the rest of their clothes.


End file.
